Shatter
by Sachita
Summary: This island won't give us anything,no mothers to comfort us here. We must become as hard as Roman armour and as cold as British snow." At these words, something inside of the little blue-eyed boy shattered. "You're right," he said. - "I know."


_**Shatter**_

* * *

A year on this wretched island and it's happening again: there is a storm raging outside.

He can hear the wind hurl twigs and branches against the barracks. Rain is pouring down from the skies.

And amidst them, Dagonet sighs. "The gods are angry," he says. Thus they all gather around him to pray, while the Romans close to them look on curiously.

And it occurs to him, that this is almost comic a situation- the silent, intimidating warrior clad in black garments, which are soaked with water and them, the usually loud, boisterous knights gathered at a table, frightfully praying for an end of the storm.

He knows that he has become a cynic. This land has made him to a cynic, at least that's what he usually tells Galahad, who simply looks at him with that strange reproachful, yet naïve look.

"This is not our land," he always states in a confident, young voice.

"It might as well be our land as it is soaked with our blood" he sometimes likes to retort sharply, because he relishes seeing the confused hurt on the boy's face and seeing him losing some of his natural self-righteousness, but only for a second, then he feels how misery and guilt unfurl themselves deep inside of him and he really feels like apologising, but then Galahad has already turned away.

Of course then the cynic inside of him rears up again and he pretends to be careless, whilst he knows that the misery will stay for a long time, somewhere deep inside, like a black, bitter taste on his tongue, blood on his skin, gathered in those measured hurt looks that Galahad will throw his way a long time afterwards.

* * *

The door flies open and someone stands there, silhouetted against the furious weather outside. It's Tristan. Of course it's Tristan. Well, who else could it be? If Tristan had a weather, which would only belong to him, it would be this weather. Furious and snarling, then abrupt silence, with dark anger simmering just beneath the surface.

But of course no weather belongs to Tristan, nothing belongs to Tristan, nothing belongs to him either, they're all slaves of Rome and Rome has made them to what they are: scared ,huddled boys in dripping black garb hiding from the storm, while blood still drips from their daggers from the latest skirmish with the Woads.

Tristan doesn't hide from storms. He goes out to face them, he becomes a part of them, wild and free and feral.

The people of the grasslands have always been frightened of storms, yet Tristan hasn't.

But the quick moment has passed and the scout greets them almost absentmindedly, eyeing them indifferently. But that's a deception for Tristan is always alert. He ignores them now and walks away. He gets up and follows him, compelled by a strong impulse, ignoring the others' questioning gazes.

* * *

Tristan walks on to the stairs, takes measured, long steps. He still follows him.

The long corridor is deserted. Tristan unceremoniously opens the large window shutters at the end of the corridor. Then he looks out silently, and he offers no words, even as he steps up next to him.

"What did you find outside?" A simple question, one for making small talk.

Tristan has never been one to make small talk, so the answer is simple: "Woads."

"As always, huh?" he offers with a slight grin and he is pleasantly surprised, when the scout answers with one of his own rare smirks.

"Why did you answer?" he ventures, not knowing how long his luck will hold with his silent companion.

Much to his surprise, there is another answer. "Because you decided to come out of hiding."

"I did?"

"Yes. They hide from the storm. They can't hide from the Woads."

He thinks he understands. "You think they can't hide from the ways of this island."

Tristan doesn't exactly nod. He just says: "There are no mothers to comfort them here. It's this life now we must lead and we should make the best of it."

He knows that Tristan is right, yet something inside of him shatters and something of the blue-eyed little Sarmatian boy dies in him. "You're right," he says evenly.

There is no smirk on the other's face now.

"I know I am," Tristan says and to Gawain's ears his voice sounds strangely hollow.

* * *

_So... Please, tell me: did you like it? Or didn't you like it? Constructive criticism and reviews are always highly appreciated. )_

_Sachita_


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